by Peg Cochran
“Yes, would you like to try some?” Shelby handed Liz the basket of crackers and an open container of spread.
“Mmm, this is heavenly,” Liz said, nibbling delicately on the cracker. “Thyme?”
“Yes. And a dash of lemon.”
“I tried the recipe from your blog for chicken potpies, and my husband is still raving. He didn’t think I could cook, and frankly neither did I.” Liz laughed. “Your recipe was so easy to follow that even I managed to pull it off, despite being all thumbs in the kitchen,” she said as she put two containers of the cheese spread in her tote and handed Shelby the money. “We’re having a big cocktail party on Saturday night.” She wrinkled her nose. “Mostly my husband’s colleagues from the hospital. This cheese spread is just what I needed to round things out.”
She waggled her fingers at Shelby as she moved on to the next booth.
Shelby looked around the market. Customers buzzed about the booths, filling their totes or the reusable grocery bags with farms’ names on them that some of the farmers handed out.
Shelby turned back to her booth to see a woman approaching her. She was older, with tightly permed white hair and blue eyes surrounded by a web of wrinkles. She was wearing apricot-colored capri pants and a coordinating T-shirt. Shelby recognized her from church but didn’t know her name.
The woman smiled when she got to Shelby’s booth. “You go to St. Andrews, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I recognized you.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Deirdre Fitch.”
Shelby introduced herself in turn. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m making some wax bean soup. I grow my own beans,” Deirdre said almost apologetically, “but my dill didn’t take this year. Do you have any?”
“Certainly.” Shelby pulled out a bunch of dill tied with a string. “You made that soup for Prudence Mather’s funeral lunch, didn’t you? It was delicious.”
Deirdre beamed. “Why, thank you. The recipe was my grandmother’s.” She pulled her wallet from the large handbag hanging from her arm. “Poor Prudence. Have you heard anything about the police investigation? Have they discovered anything?”
“Not that I know of,” Shelby said as she placed the herbs in a bag. “It’s hard to imagine someone as meek and mild as Prudence stirring anyone to murder.”
Deirdre gave a snort. “Prudence made plenty of enemies, even in the short time she was here. You know she accused Earl Bylsma, our former head usher, of stealing from the collection plate? Herb—he’s my husband—is the treasurer of St. Andrews, and he said Prudence went to him on more than one occasion accusing the poor man of stealing.”
“Really?”
This wasn’t news to Shelby, but it was confirmation of what Grace had already told her.
“Earl was absolutely furious with Prudence. He could hardly stand to be in the same room with her after that. He quit ushering even though Herb tried to persuade him to keep the position.” Deirdre stuffed her wallet back in her purse. “And here’s the ironic part.” She leaned closer to Shelby. “After Earl quit, Herb was still short when he double-checked the cash before readying the bank deposit.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. The Sunday Prudence was murdered, nearly a thousand dollars went missing from the collection.”
Shelby could hardly wait to call Kelly to tell her what she’d learned from Deirdre. The market was beginning to wind down, and she’d sold all of her cheese spread and most of her herbs, lettuces, and vegetables. She looked around, pulled her cell phone from her pocket, and began to dial Kelly’s number.
“Excuse me. How much are the cucumbers?”
Shelby ended the call abruptly and turned to her customer. Why hadn’t she seen her coming?
After a bit of haggling over the price, the woman bought all of Shelby’s cucumbers, several heads of lettuce, and the remainder of the herbs. Shelby packaged everything up and handed the bag to the woman with a smile.
She checked again, but no one was approaching her booth. She pulled out her cell phone once more and quickly dialed.
“Can you meet me at the diner in half an hour?” she asked when Kelly answered.
“Sure. I’m finished with my last patient—a very obstreperous miniature poodle who tried to take a bite out of my thumb when I took his temperature. Not that I blame him. I wouldn’t like it much, either. I have to close up, but that won’t take long.”
“Great. See you in about half an hour. I should be able to get everything back in the truck by then.”
“Don’t rush. I’ll get us a booth.”
Shelby began carrying the crates back to the truck. It was a lot easier now that they were almost all empty. It was still hot, though, and she paused for a minute to take a drink from her water bottle. A nice cold pop was going to taste really good.
Shelby recognized Kelly’s car when she pulled into the parking lot of the diner. The macadam was lifting up in places and crumbling in others, making for a rather bumpy ride. Shelby backed the truck into a spot and got out.
Scrubby grass grew alongside the walk that led to the diner’s red-and-white front door. A rotating sign on the roof read OPEN 6 A.M. TO MIDNIGHT. Farmers got up early and went to bed early, but the diner also catered to long-distance truckers passing through.
Several of the aluminum letters spelling out the name on the front of the diner were missing so that it had become LOVE DIN R. The general feeling was that if you didn’t already know it was the Lovett Diner, then you had no business being there. The truckers were tolerated because they arrived after all the locals had gone home and were fast asleep in bed and the two never had to meet.
Kelly was tucked into a corner booth when Shelby walked in. She was still wearing the blue scrubs she’d had on earlier that morning, but they were considerably dirtier and more stained now. Her hair was yanked back in an elastic with half of it escaping and curling around her face. Even from a distance, Shelby could see she looked even more tired than she had earlier—tired and still worried.
Shelby sat down opposite her friend. The top of the table was worn and scarred from years of use, and someone had carved the initials F & P in the corner. The tableside jukeboxes were mostly broken now, although a few still played the tunes that only went as far as the late 1960s.
“I hope it’s good news,” Kelly said as soon as Shelby sat down. She took a long pull on the straw in her glass of pop.
“I think it is,” Shelby began but stopped when the waitress swooped by their table, her pad and pencil at the ready.
Shelby ordered a pop and a plate of fries.
“What?” She looked at Kelly. “I’m hungry. I’ve been hauling crates around all day.”
Kelly laughed. “I didn’t say anything. It’s your guilty conscience talking, not me.”
“You’re probably right.”
Almost immediately the waitress was back with Shelby’s pop and fries. She put the plate down on the table between them.
“Looks like you have to share,” Kelly said, snatching a fry from the pile.
Shelby peeled the wrapper off her straw, plunged it into her drink, and took a long sip.
“So, what is this great news? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Kelly grabbed another fry.
“It’s about Prudence and the money missing from the collection at church.”
“The money she claims Earl stole?”
Shelby nodded, her mouth full of fries. “Deirdre Fitch came by my booth at the farmers’ market today. Her husband, Herb, is the treasurer at St. Andrews.”
Kelly stopped chewing and raised her eyebrows.
“She says . . .” Shelby paused to take a drink.
“Go on,” Kelly urged.
“She says that money went missing after Earl stopped ushering. The Sunday of Prudence’s murder, as
a matter of fact.”
“So either two thieves are at work at St. Andrews, or Earl isn’t guilty.”
“Exactly. And get this . . .” Shelby picked up a fry.
“Don’t keep stopping like that,” Kelly grumbled. “The suspense is killing me.”
Shelby grinned.
Kelly pointed a french fry at her. “You’re doing it on purpose. To tease me.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Anyway, Deirdre told me that the Sunday morning Prudence was murdered, nearly a thousand dollars was missing from the collection.”
“A thousand dollars!” Kelly put down the fry she was about to eat. “But that’s how much was found in Prudence’s purse.”
“Exactly,” Shelby said with satisfaction.
“You don’t think . . .”
“What else?” Shelby took a sip of her pop. “It’s logical, isn’t it? A thousand dollars is missing from the church. Prudence has a thousand dollars in her purse.”
“Therefore Prudence is the one who stole the money,” Kelly finished for her. She nibbled the end of her french fry. “Prudence had some nerve accusing Earl of stealing when she was the one with her hand in the cookie jar.”
“Well, we don’t know for sure that Prudence—”
“It’s too much of a coincidence to be anything but true,” Kelly insisted. “I don’t blame Earl for being so mad. I would have felt like killing Prudence myself.” She looked at Shelby. “You do think Earl did it, don’t you?”
17
Dear Reader,
The farmers’ market was a success. I sold most of the produce and cheese I brought with me. Living on a farm means keeping a tight rein on your spending and praying you’ll have enough to keep body and soul together.
My cell phone is still the old flip-top kind. Amelia’s is much fancier and cost a fortune. Fortunately her paternal grandparents gave it to her for Christmas. The elder McDonalds are living in Florida now. They up and moved when Grandpa McDonald sold his plumbing business to his younger partner.
I haven’t quite taken to cutting my own hair yet—there’s a salon over in Allenvale that’s quite reasonable—but I certainly don’t go as often as I’d like. Fortunately my blog has started to bring in some money, much to my surprise, since Armor Cookware approached me about advertising on my site.
As Shelby drove out of the parking lot, she thought over what she’d learned. It was hard to imagine Prudence stealing from the church, but maybe there had been something wrong with her? Shelby had read of cases like that—where a brain tumor caused a person to act completely out of the norm. She supposed that would have shown up when they had done the autopsy. The thought made her shiver.
She hadn’t ruled out Wallace as a suspect yet, but Earl was the front-runner as far as she was concerned. He certainly didn’t seem the type, but then, look at Prudence—she wasn’t at all what she’d seemed, either.
Shelby pulled into the parking lot of the Lovett Feed Store. She needed to buy a couple of bags of chicken feed. The Lovett Feed Store was actually Van Enks Feed Store, but people had been referring to it as the Lovett Feed Store for so long that the Van Enks eventually gave up and changed the name. The same family had been running the place since the early 1900s, and Harland van Enk had been behind the counter since Shelby was a little girl—his hair growing steadily whiter and his posture more stooped as the years went on.
The feed store itself was little more than a gussied-up barn with exposed joists and rough flooring. Large bags of feed were stacked against the wall and smaller ones were on plain metal shelving. Shelby found the brand she wanted and looked around the store.
A boy—most likely one of the younger generation of Van Enks—rushed over with a cart. He hefted the bag onto the cart as easily as if it didn’t weigh a thing and wheeled it to the checkout counter for Shelby.
The man in line in front of Shelby looked vaguely familiar, and when he turned around she realized it was Earl. She felt strangely embarrassed, as if the fact that she’d been talking about him was apparent on her face.
“Oh, hi,” he said. He looked startled—as if Shelby was the last person he expected to see.
“Another hot day, isn’t it?” He jiggled the change in his pocket and motioned toward the counter with a tip of his head. “Harland’s gone into the back to get me some dog food that just came in. Sorry to be holding you up.”
“That’s okay. It feels good to slow down every once in a while.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Say,” Earl blurted out, “your brother-in-law works for the police, doesn’t he?”
Shelby was slightly surprised by the question. “Yes, he’s a detective.”
“Has he said anything about . . . you know . . . the murder?” He jingled the change in his pocket faster and faster.
“Not really.” Shelby was thinking fast—how to introduce the subject of Prudence and her accusations?
“It’s not like old Prudence had a lot of enemies.” Earl laughed, but there was nothing humorous about the sound.
“I gather she did have enemies. I understand you were pretty mad at her when she accused you of stealing.”
Earl jumped. “Who told you that?”
“I don’t remember,” Shelby lied with her fingers crossed behind her back.
“It’s not true. I didn’t steal the money, and I told her so.”
“I know. Mrs. Fitch told me that money was missing even after you left. But it still must have made you pretty angry.” Shelby didn’t want to push too hard.
A red flush rose from Earl’s neck to his forehead. The tips of his ears were crimson. “Are you accusing me of murder?”
Dear Reader, I think it’s time I backed down. As a matter of fact, I may have gone entirely too far. . . .
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Shelby reassured him.
“Because if that’s what you think, I can prove I didn’t have nothing to do with it.” Earl jammed both hands in his pockets.
Dear Reader, now, this is getting interesting. . . .
“I certainly didn’t mean to imply—”
“I was with Matt Hudson the whole time. You can ask him. He needed some help carrying the empty crates back to his truck. We spoke to Prudence before we started—to let her know Matt was beginning to pack up—and we were together until we heard you come running out of the house yelling to call nine-one-one.”
Shelby felt strangely guilty as she drove away from the feed store. She certainly hadn’t meant to upset Earl. On the other hand, she had gotten some interesting information. She wondered if what Earl had said was true.
Shelby pulled into the driveway at Love Blossom Farm and was surprised when a truck pulled in right behind her. She could see LOVETT GENERAL STORE written on the side through her rearview mirror.
She got out of the pickup just as Matt Hudson was getting out of his.
“Perfect timing,” Shelby said as she let down the tailgate. “I could use some help with this bag.”
“At your service, ma’am.” Matt tipped an imaginary hat. He pulled the bag out of the pickup and slung it over his shoulder. “Where to?”
Shelby led him back to the old barn. She threw open the doors to let in some light. “Mind the cat. Patches likes to wind around people’s ankles.”
“I know what you mean. My Whiskey does the same. He tripped me once, and I hurled an entire plate of food at the wall. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been so hungry.” Matt walked over to the far corner. “This okay?”
“Perfect.”
He put the bag down and leaned it against the wall. “I’ve brought the paint for your mudroom. It came in this afternoon.”
“That was fast.”
Matt gave a mock bow. “We aim to please, ma’am.”
Shelby laughed and led the way back to the house. She w
ent inside while Matt went out to his truck to grab the paint cans.
She was surprised to find Bert in the kitchen, sitting in the old rocker that had been in the corner at least since Shelby’s grandparents had owned the place. She had a ball of wool in her lap and was knitting a pair of mittens. She held them up. “Hard to believe we’ll be needing these any time soon, but winter will be here before you know it.”
“Let’s not rush it,” Shelby said. Winters were long and hard on the farm.
“I brought back that mending I promised I’d take care of for you,” Bert said, her knitting needles making a ticktock sound as she flew through the row of stitches. “I put it in the laundry room. Didn’t know if it needed washing or not.”
“Thanks, Bert. You’re a saint. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Don’t go getting all sentimental. You’ll embarrass me.”
Shelby laughed. “Is Amelia upstairs?”
Bert shook her head. “She’s gone out. Said she was off to Kaylee’s house. I told her I didn’t mind sticking around until you got back.”
Shelby froze. Kaylee’s house? Not very likely.
“I hope that’s okay?” Bert asked, a frown creasing the skin between her eyebrows.
“Sure.” Shelby smiled brightly. It was kind enough of Bert to babysit. She didn’t want to make her feel as if she’d somehow been negligent.
“Billy’s outside playing,” Bert said with a smile. “So like his father. You can’t bottle them up inside—they won’t have it.”
Shelby smiled—a genuine smile this time. Bert was right. Billy was so much like his father, and the resemblance was more than merely physical.
The front door opened and Matt’s voice rang out. “Here’s your paint.” He came in carrying two cans.
Bert’s mouth puckered in disapproval.
“Shall I take them out to the mudroom?”
“Yes. Good idea.”
